


Loss and Remaking

by pixie_rings



Series: Falconry and Other Pursuits [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-All That Remains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke has lost his mother. Picking up the pieces is not going to be easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss and Remaking

**Author's Note:**

> I am replaying Dragon Age 2. I just finished _All That Remains_ *sobs brokenly* and, well... let's just say this is a study in grief.

“I haven't seen you for days.”

He couldn't even bring himself to look up. He knew there were things to be done – because who else would set things to rights if not Garrett Hawke, saviour of Kirkwall? - but all he could do was sit there. Sometimes he'd rise and wander listlessly, every little detail in this Blighted house reminding him of her.

He hadn't even moved her needlework from the chaise in the parlour. It sat there, gathering dust, waiting for delicate, yet work-hardened hands to continue stitching. Hands that would never hold a needle again.

He felt the bed dip under a light but sturdy weight, and it took every ounce of strength in him to turn his head and look at Fenris. The elf looked back, and Hawke felt a fresh wave of grief surge upwards at the expression of pity on his face.

“I... sorry,” he muttered. For once, he had no reply. There were no witty words clamouring at the forefront of his mind to be beaten back lest he land them in even more shit than they were in already. He felt... lost, at the feeling of emptiness in his mind.

“Don't be,” Fenris murmured. He placed a hand on Hawke's arm, and Hawke blinked, the barest flicker of surprise as realised Fenris wore no gauntlets.

Hawke trembled under his touch. “I just... I shouldn't...” The words packed greasily in the back of his throat, tasting like bile, and he couldn't make them come out. He couldn't find a way to explain anything. All he could do was let out a small broken sob.

Fenris took his weight easily, held him close, closer than he had in months, and let Hawke weep into his chest. He hadn't cried yet, he hadn't been _able_ to, and he'd thought something inside him was broken. Now all he seemed to be able to do was howl his anguish and loss into Fenris's embrace, tears streaming down his chest, shoulders heaving. Fenris dug his fingers into his back, pressed him close, hand at the back of his head, an anchor in the tearaway storm of his grief. For ages, he hadn't felt _anything_ , wandering around like a shade of himself, his mind several feet away and unreachable as his body went through the motions of survival. Now... it was almost too much to bear. His emotions burst through him, all together, cacophonous and maddening, leaving him raw and bleeding in their wake.

There was the loss: the knowledge he would never see her smile again, never hear her laughter or her scolding. He'd never have the warmth of her hugs or the scent of her jasmine water around him. Her tea, her jam, her pies and her roasts. Her wrinkles and her soft silver hair, her callused but comforting hands, her voice, whether singing or chiding. The sorrow, the pain and the anger mingled with the loss, tearing at him from the inside out.

There was also the guilt, though. And that charged to the forefront, most powerful and painful of everything, painful enough to burst from his mouth, merging, almost incoherently, with his moans.

“It's my... my f-f-faul...” he sobbed, not enough breath in the world to fill his lungs and finished the word. And still Fenris held him, steady and sure, a rock in the tempestuous sea of grief.

Eventually though, all storms pass. Hawke didn't know how long he'd been there, in Fenris's arms, letting out his suffering, but finally, it ebbed, turned quieter, less violent. Fenris didn't let go, but his hold loosened, and his fingers began softly carding through Hawke's hair.

“I cannot give you the forgiveness you seek,” he murmured. “But I can be beside you.”

Hawke trembled, the grief bubbling up again. The way Fenris's fingers wove through his hair... He pulled himself up, exhaustion creeping up on him, and rubbed at his eyes.

He felt empty again, but this was a different kind of emptiness. It wasn't the void of shock with nothing to fill it, it was... the cathartic kind. He could feel his emotions tiptoeing back, slowly creeping back into their proper places.

His eyes hurt. His cheeks were tight with salt. His beard itched. He took a deep breath, ran his hands down his face.

“I should have gotten there sooner,” he said, fists clenching against his cheeks.

“We got there as soon as we could,” Fenris said. He drew a leg up, propped his chin on his knee, and watched Hawke slowly piece himself back together. There was no judgement in his voice or his expression.

“I should have noticed the bloody lilies.”

As soon as he'd returned, he'd thrown the vase at the wall and roared his fury. Cat had cowered, whimpering, beneath his desk. He'd ruined the wallpaper, the large, damp patch left behind an unpleasant reminder of everything. He'd have to redecorate.

“She only got them that morning,” Fenris said. “We were on the Coast.”

“Chasing the wrong fucking apostate,” Hawke growled, hating himself and his own stupidity.

“You will blame yourself for a long time,” Fenris stated, “but that does not mean you _are_ to blame.” He stood, slipping off his cuirass and propping it against the wall. “I will stay tonight. I do not want you to be alone.”

.

Sleep eluded him, Hawke mused, much like the last few nights. Fenris slept beside him, the light sleep of the fugitive, but asleep nonetheless. Hawke huffed, staring at the ceiling, making out lines in the darkness, whether from familiarity or from actual light, he couldn't have said.

He knew it was too late to do anything, but that didn't stop the guilt. It was still there, hunched on his chest like a Fade demon, freezing cold and burning hot at the same time. He couldn't stop his mind from replaying everything a thousand times, no matter how hard he tried to stop it. It was agony. And when he did sleep... the nightmares...

Beside him, Fenris shifted. He closed his eyes quickly, trying to feign slumber, but Fenris scoffed at him.

“I can see in the dark, Hawke,” he said. Hawke opened his eyes. Sure enough, Fenris was watching him, a subtle, greenish glow, much like Cat's. It was creepy.

“You never miss a trick, do you?” Hawke muttered. He watched Fenris move until the elf was lying across his chest. The feeling was good, and there was still something there, in his chest, that did a backflip whenever he was near Fenris, but... right now, it was muted. There was no violent explosion of affection, just an acknowledgement of it. It was a brief, polite nod to an acquaintance in the street.

It scared him.

He reached up, ran a thumb along Fenris's jaw, watching the gentle flicker of light from his markings.

“Try to sleep,” Fenris said, running a hand across Hawke's bare chest.

“I'll try,” Hawke said. No use in making promises.

.

“Mage!”

Anders straightened, raising an eyebrow as his lip curled in distaste. The elf stood there, in the doorway, arms folded. Just the thing to ruin his day, ha!

“What do you want?” Anders snapped, chomping down on Justice's bristling energy within himself. To Anders's surprise, Fenris deflated, going from angry dog to beaten one in a second. It was... strange.

“I need something for Hawke,” he said, and Anders was listening, now. He'd been there. He'd seen... Leandra had never cared. Leandra had been the woman that had invited them all to dinner, thieves and apostates and dwarves and ex-slaves, and had treated them all equally. Everyone loved Leandra. And Hawke, well... Hawke was Hawke, wasn't it? He beat down the jealousy and cleared his throat.

“What do you need?” he asked, considerably more civil. Hawke brought them together in a way nothing else in this world ever could.

“He's not sleeping,” Fenris said. “And when he does, he... dreams.”

Anders hummed, running a hand through hair that needed a wash. “Probably demons. He'll be susceptible right now, about...” He shook his head. “I can concoct a dreamless sleep draught, it'll cut him off from the Fade for a while, enough to let him sleep well.”

Fenris frowned. “Cut him off from...”

“It won't make him Tranquil, you know how much I hate that!” Anders said waspishly. He reined in his irritation and continued more civilly. “It's not difficult, and it's not dangerous. I've used it, once or twice. It's not Chantry-endorsed, I got the recipe from another apostate in Amaranthine.” He rubbed at his temple, going through the ingredient list and trying not to think about how Ciaran would drink far too much of it, but would never stop the nightmares... “I need to get some ingredients.”

He grabbed a leather pack and headed to the door. When Fenris didn't make a move, he rolled his eyes.

“Are you coming or not?”

Fenris scowled, but he followed.

.

The bottle on the table didn't glow. It seemed rather... unmagical, for a potion, Hawke mused. He picked it up, swirled the liquid, watching it gyrate thickly against the glass, staining it for a second before oozing down again, dragged by gravity. It didn't look that pleasant.

“And what will this do?” he asked.

“Dreamless sleep,” Anders replied. Hawke never would have thought he'd see the day that Anders and Fenris would cooperate. The way they stood, both in front of him with arms folded, twin expectant looks on their faces, was eerie. It also screamed of an intervention, and he felt guilty all over again. He was feeling a lot of that, lately, to so many different people.

Carver had sent him a letter. He hadn't read it.

“Don't need it,” Hawke muttered. Fenris sighed.

“Hawke...”

“Fine, fine...” Hawke uncorked the bottle and sniffed. It smelt of... it didn't smell of anything in particularly, besides a slight whiff of cut grass. Strange. “Right, so... cheers!”

He trusted Anders. And he trusted Fenris. He tipped the bottle back and chugged.

He allowed it to settle in his stomach, lukewarm and thick, like custard. “Where did you get the recipe?” he asked, conversationally.

“A friend, back in Ferelden,” Anders replied.

“The Hero himself needs it, eh?” Hawke's lips twitched. Anders merely sighed.

That was when his head began swimming. His eyelids became heavy, enough that he couldn't keep them open. The last thing he registered, before sweet, sweet oblivion, was the cold of Fenris's armour against his cheek, the lithe strength of his arms holding him up. Then everything went black.

.

He'd never woken up feeling so groggy before. Not even during the escape from Lothering, or after returning from the Deep Roads... probably had something to do with the potion. He clumsily raised a hand and tried to rub his face. He slapped himself instead, and the pain that ran jagged through his nose made his eyes water.

“Ow,” he tried to say. It came out more of an unintelligible whimper.

“That was clever,” said the voice beside his bed. He managed to scowl. This only got him a laugh, though, so he supposed he hadn't managed to transmit the intense feeling of not needing Fenris's sass right now. Slowly, shakily and achingly, he managed to sit up, rubbing at his temples.

“How... how long have I been asleep?” he rasped, his throat dry as the Orlesian desert, his mouth clammy and tasting as if he'd been licking the carpet.

“An entire day,” Fenris said. He put down the book he'd been holding and leaned forward. “Do you feel any better?”

Hawke was staring at the book. It was a children's book, about a Mabari pup named Courage who wanted to be a knight... He remembered it. It was dog-eared, its pages stuck back in with gum and prayers by Father, a smudge on the front from where Carver had dropped it in the mud outside, the corner of the front cover chewed by Cat as a puppy... Mother must have brought it with her.

“Hawke?”

He looked up. He smiled. There was no wave of grief or surge of guilt, just a dull, dark ache. His head was no longer heavy with what ifs and maybes, and when he looked at Fenris, his heart swelled again. And the thought of Mother... It hurt, but not as much.

“I think so, yes.” He propped up a pillow and leaned back. “Read to me?”

Fenris's gaze darted to the book, and the tips of his ears coloured. “I...” He looked ashamed to have been caught reading that book, with all its pictures and simple words. For Hawke, it just seemed like a victory. He was reading on his own, and who cared what story it was? Maker knew he'd read about Courage the Mabari enough times that the front cover was worn and faded from his fingers. He could recite the story in his sleep, probably.

Hawke shifted, making room next to himself on the bed, and patted the mattress beside him. “Come on, it's been ages since someone read that to me.” Father had, once or twice, but it had mostly been Mother. Mother didn't approve of the voices and the acting, it seemed, as it only got them excited and made them forget it was bedtime.

Fenris eyed the bed, but slid on nonetheless, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He allowed Hawke to nestle against his shoulder, and cracked open the book, rifling through the pages to the beginning.

“Ch-chapter one: in wh... which C-Cour-age... Courage is born and... and his mow... mother makes a pre- predica- pre-diction...”

.

After that, things went more or less back to normal. It was still strange, coming back to a house where his mother wasn't. He'd been so used to seeing her there, sitting in front of the fire, reading or embroidering with Cat at her feet... There were people at home, yes: there were Bodahn, and Sandal and Orana... but it still felt empty.

He also noticed that people were visiting more often. Varric would come and they would share a bottle in the parlour, laughing. Merrill brought home-made cakes and watered the plants. And Fenris... Fenris spent almost every day with him, lingering at the mansion, using his reading lessons as an excuse until it was too late to return. Hawke was grateful for it.

Over the weeks, the sting lessened. There was nothing that filled the void Mother had left in him, but he built around it, tended like a shrine until he could look upon it and not weep. The little things still reminded him of her, but they now longer broke him whenever he saw them. There were things to do, people to save and prickly politics to navigate, enough to keep him busy. He laughed again, he joked again, he fought like a tiger again, and though nothing was the same, it would suffice.


End file.
